


Loyalties

by Eustacia Vye (eustaciavye)



Series: Secrets of the Red Room [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4157940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustaciavye/pseuds/Eustacia%20Vye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was time to come in from the cold. They had better make it worth her while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suspicion

Natasha sat in the small cell, staring at the wall. She had known this would happen, but she had grown _tired_ of being in the field, constantly on her guard. She had her safe houses, contacts and identities to fall back on. It kept her safe, but it was tiring. The conversation with Clint Barton in Budapest had gotten to her, more than she would have wanted to admit.

What did she want other than survival? She still didn't know.

So she waited and let him catch her again. She let him talk to her. She let him offer sanctuary with SHIELD again.

And this time, she said yes.

There was utter chaos when he brought her in, the disbelief on the face of his handler and the grim acceptance that came after. "Are you sure?" he had asked, anxiety in his tone but not in his facial expression.

"I'd stake my life on it," Clint had replied.

"You just might," his handler replied, anxiety replaced by dry sarcastic wit.

The relationship made her gut ache. She'd never had that kind of trust and acceptance in the Red Room or on her own. It hurt to see.

So she let them think the cuffs would hold. She let them put her in this cell with its bed bolted to the floor and the walls bare of any decoration. It had a simple sink and toilet, both activated with motion sensors. There was nothing to use as a weapon, but she didn't need tools. Her body itself was a weapon, and she could take anyone down if she had to.

When it seemed as though they weren't coming back right away, she twisted her wrists out of the cuffs and left them at the foot of the bed. She sat cross legged in its center, facing the door, her hands on her knees in a relaxed posture. Waiting was no difficulty. She knew how to wait, to keep her mind occupied and her senses alert. If they thought this was going to be torture, they were sadly mistaken. She had endured far worse as a child, far worse when on her own.

Hours passed, and finally the door unlocked. There was one guard with a tray, another behind him with a pistol in hand. She remained still as the guard put the tray on the bed and retrieved the useless cuffs. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see plastic utensils to eat with. They could still be used as weapons, and no doubt these men knew that. Why else have an unholstered pistol in the same room with her? She could easily retrieve it if she so chose.

But she sat still, and smiled slightly at them. "Thank you for your cooperation," she said sweetly.

The two guards were definitely thrown. They had likely thought she would murder her way through SHEILD as she had through several Vory families and a number of lesser thugs that had tried to hire her to intimidate drug trafficking rivals.

Once the door was locked, she turned her attention to the food. Simple fare, likely from their cafeteria menu. They didn't intend for her to starve, so the hours of silence were unlikely to be a form of torture. It most likely meant that they didn't know what the hell to do with her and the secrets she likely held. Still, she sniffed the food and took a small sample to taste for the usual array of poisons. After ten minutes, she still felt fine. Not that they were likely to try to kill her, but it was nice to have confirmation of that.

Natasha allowed herself a small smile and tucked in.

***

There was a parade of paper pushers and a few psychiatric evaluations. Natasha lied to all of them, making sure the lies were obvious and a sign of her disdain. She had chosen to come in from the cold, yes, but they had to make it worth her while. They looked down on her because of her age and her sex, seeming to forget how lethal she could really be.

It was a surprise when it was Clint Barton on the other side of the cell door, a box in hand and a grin on his face. "Hey. Betcha you're ready for a change of scenery."

"The room leaves much to be desired."

"I'll take that as a yes."

There were two SHIELD agents behind them, clearly meant to be guards. She didn't find them intimidating at all, but was polite enough not to say so. It was difficult to memorize the twists and turns between her cell and wherever Clint was taking her, though she would never admit it to him. He seemed so very proud of himself for this, and she really was grateful for the change of pace. "So. Coulson's about ready to crack, I think," he announced partway through their walk.

"Oh?" she asked, sounding bored.

"Yep. I think you're going to give him a migraine bigger than the ones I do."

"Your handler, then. The one that was concerned over your safety."

"Yeah. I might've broken a few regs to bring you in, remember? I got reprimanded, notations put in my file, kicked off base for three weeks. No big deal, really."

"You were disciplined for this."

"To be expected. You're still breathing, after all," Clint replied in an offhand manner. "C'mon, we're here."

Here turned out to be a practice range deep underground, if Natasha had to guess by the concrete walls. There were two others in different lanes, but Clint steered them toward the side farthest from the doors, then put the box on the table against the wall. "I figured you were bored. Now, remembering what that was like, I thought you'd like an actual target this time."

She lofted an eyebrow at him. "Really?"

Opening the box, he took out a small tray that had been wedged in on the top. "Really. I found these for you."

She looked at the tray he offered her. Three tactical knives on a black velveteen backing to show off the craftsmanship and shine of the blades. She retrieved one, setting the guards on edge, and tested its heft. "I like it."

"Used by US Army," Clint said with a smile. "Better make than the pieces of shit we used." Her grin answered his. "I figured a soldier's daughter should have something sound to use."

Her grin faded a bit. "Well. How can you be sure that wasn't a lie?"

He gave her a look that clearly said _I'm not stupid._ "How about a little competition, then? The most bullseyes wins. If you win, you get to ask for something. I'll see if I can get it."

"Range time," she replied immediately. Idleness was not in her nature. "Pistols."

"I'll have to check," Clint promised.

"And if you win?"

"You have to tell at least one truth in all those interviews." He grinned at her blink. "I might've managed to get my hands on one of the interviews. Those stories were things of beauty, I'll give you that. I particularly liked the one with your mother throwing you out of a burning building to save your life. Dramatic touch."

Natasha snorted. "How do you know that isn't the truth? That I lied to you earlier."

"I wasn't. You weren't. I think you lied because they sent assholes your way." When she rattled off the names, he snorted. "Yep. They deserved that. So. Do we have a deal?"

His cavalier manner was likely what rattled his superiors. But for some reason, she was drawn to it. Possibly because he was treating her the same way. She was a person, not an object, not a thing to be handled. She was valuable in her own right, not for what she could do for him.

"Deal. What will you use if you got these knives for me?"

Clint grinned and whipped out his bow, snapping it to full size with a practiced flick of his wrist. "I plan to be using this."

"You're serious."

"Deadly," he confirmed. He put on his quiver and pulled an arrow to shoot the bullseye in the lane he was standing in, not even looking. "So. Match me? We'll see who can hit the center no matter what trick shot we do."

Smirking, Natasha took the knife in her hands and threw it at the bullseye in the lane she was standing in without looking, relying on memory.

"Pretty good," Clint said, a playful challenge in his voice.

They both had hit the center, and the competition was _fun,_ rather like how it had been in the arcades playing with knives with her mother, or later with some of the other girls. He was as good as he claimed to be, and had no qualms cracking jokes in between his shots. She pulled faces at him, making him laugh, and it was good to laugh along with him. It was the first time in _months_ that she had done so, and the sound of her laughter startled the guards and the agents in the other lanes. But who cared? Her mood was so good that it didn't even matter that one of her throws was slightly off center, closer to the ring at the outer edge of the bullseye. Clint was a good winner at the end of the session, merely smirking back at her and declaring "You pick the truth, Natasha. Any truth, I don't care. I'll know."

"How will you know? Will you be there?" she challenged him.

"I'm pretty sure I know you best out of anyone in this entire building. I'll know."

She snorted, and allowed him to escort her back to her cell. Of course he had to keep the knives along with his bow on the range. But he had given them to her, and it was clear that he was merely holding onto them until the time she was trusted to walk the halls with them. "I haven't killed anyone here yet," she had snarked.

"I know," he replied, smirking back at her. "I think they're taking bets on when the body count is going to start. If it does, I suggest starting with the south wing. Most of those specialists are assholes, and I won't miss them."

"What makes you think I won't go after you for bringing me here?"

"My wit and charming smile," he snarked, opening the door to her cell. "Your castle awaits, milady," he said, complete with bow and sweeping arm gesture toward her door.

She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at him or flip him a rude gesture. "My thanks."

When the door closed behind her, she actually slept with a smile on her lips.

***

Clint strolled into Coulson's office without knocking and plopped himself down in the chair in front of the desk. Coulson was on the phone, and frowned at Clint, but didn't pause in his end of the conversation. Clint tuned it out, picking at one of his cuticles until it bled when he finally pulled it off. Sticking his finger in his mouth to suck off the blood, he waited patiently for Coulson to finish what he was doing. His reputation was of a hothead, but as a sniper, he knew how to wait as long as necessary to take the shot.

"To what do I owe this dubious honor?" Coulson finally asked once he was off the phone.

"Can I see the report?"

"You'll have to be a little more specific, Agent Barton."

Snorting, Clint repressed the urge to stick his feet up on the desk. Sucking on a finger was probably disrespectful enough as it was. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova," he said, rolling the syllables effortlessly off his tongue as if he spoke Russian every day, "had her interview with Belinkoff. I want to see the transcript and report."

"You know that's above your clearance level."

"We have a bet," Clint admitted. "I won, so she has to tell one truth to whoever is doing the interviewing. I want to see if she welched."

Now he had Coulson's full attention and cooperation. "You know her well enough to tell? She beat every lie detector we put on her."

Clint snorted. "Of course she did. She was born and raised a spy. So? Can I see the transcript?"

Coulson sighed, then dug into the pile of folders on his desk to get it. Clint eagerly grabbed it, and read through the entire thing. He laughed in several places, then composed himself and handed it back. "Wow. He is such a douchebag."

"I don't officially agree with you," Coulson replied blandly, "but you're not wrong, either. So where was the truth?"

"That would be telling," Clint replied. "It would also break her confidence, I think." He sat up and leaned forward. "We're supposed to be building trust, proving we are worth her loyalty. Why are the higher ups throwing assholes at her? Why not give her someone she can trust?"

"It sounds like you have a suggestion."

"Dr. Tseng, of course."

The long exhalation was the only sign that Coulson was irritated by the suggestion. "We'll see what the Director thinks of that plan."

"He's not fond of her," Clint replied.

"Probably part of the reason why you like her so much," Coulson said.

Clint grinned. "It does help. But it's _her,_ not just the Director's thought about it. Give her someone she can trust. Show her it was a good idea to come in, that we're the good guys. It's a waste, how we're treating her."

"She was a _black target,_ Clint," Coulson replied, irritation in his tone and expression. "She was a hair away from a kill shot and you couldn't take it."

"Because she's a _kid,_ never got a choice in the matter, and I don't fucking kill kids."

"And it would be an impressive waste of talent we can put to better use," Coulson admitted, leaning back in his chair. "That you brought her in speaks volumes about your character, you know. I don't think anyone else could've pulled it off."

"Probably no one else would've tried."

"No, I don't think so," Coulson agreed.

***

Natasha sat in the bare interrogation room, her wrists shackled to the table after the stunt she pulled with the paperclip when Dr. Belinkoff didn't believe she could do damage with it. She had promised Clint one truth, and her truth had been a killing blow with a paperclip.

She was sure she was becoming a legend in SHIELD.

When the door opened, she didn't even bother to look up. She did at the aggrieved "Oh, for Christ's sake, get those off of her!" that came from the door.

This doctor was a woman in business casual clothing, a little taller than Natasha herself, with tasteful, elegant jewelry that accented her purple sweater set. Her black hair was swept up in a chignon, and her almond shaped eyes were a lighter shade of green than Natasha's. By the eyes, nose and shape of her cheekbones, Natasha would put her as Chinese descent. The bridge of her nose was a little high, and her skin tone not quite as yellow as Natasha would have expected from a full Han Chinese. Mixed descent, then. And important, judging from the way the guard hurried to unlock Natasha from the table. The cuffs had been tight, but she refused to rub her wrists once they were removed.

"I'm Dr. Whitney Tseng," the doctor said as introduction. She pulled back the chair opposite Natasha and put down her pad and pens. No paperclips in sight, but there were notes already on the pad of paper. "I've looked over the other interviews you've had so far."

Natasha wanted to grin at this doctor, but refrained and schooled her features impassive. She sat there patiently, comfortable with silence.

"You weren't a particular fan of Dr. Belinkoff," she said after a moment, lips quirking into a bit of a smile. Natasha wanted to respond to it, and tamped down on that impulse. "Far be it from me to discuss colleagues, but I could see why. Your styles don't mesh at all."

"Oh? I have a style?" Natasha asked, making sure to sound innocent.

"Mmmm." Dr. Tseng leaned back in her chair and didn't consult the notes in front of her. "Why don't we start out a little differently? Hm? I'm sure the particulars of residency training is not usually something you're concerned with. After all, we all have training. But my colleagues had additional training in forensic psychiatry. I skipped that rotation," she said sweetly. Natasha sat up a bit more at attention. "I fast tracked and did a fellowship in child and adolescent psychiatry, and I worked at an outpatient clinic for four years before SHIELD."

Ah. This was definitely different from the others. "What kind of patient population?"

"Some were indigent, some had commercial insurance." It was an answer that told Natasha nothing, and that made her estimation of the doctor rise a few notches. "What changed is that one of my patients came under SHIELD's notice. They didn't have anyone here able to handle him. No one with experience with adolescents. So they asked me to help, as we'd been working together for three years to handle his moods."

Past tense. "Where is he now?"

"Deceased," Dr. Tseng said quietly. "About a year after I started working here, he hung himself in his cell."

"Why?"

"Doctor-patient confidentiality."

"He's dead."

"It's still his tale to tell."

Natasha leaned back in her chair and brought her hands up to the table. She laced her fingers together, and looked from her fingers up to the Doctor's face. It wasn't as impassive as the doctor liked to think, not as good as hers was, but would be pretty good for the average patient. "How do I get the same courtesy?" Natasha asked after a long moment.

"Depends on the tales you have to tell."

"What do you want to hear?"

Dr. Tseng actually smiled, a warm and sincere one. Natasha suddenly realized why it seemed familiar, why the light in her eyes was something she craved.

_Natalia._

"I want to hear what you'll tell me. I want to hear the truth, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem to be."

"So you can drug me into submission?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Yes, I know about medications. If those are necessary, we can discuss that. But I've also had some training in psychotherapies, and I've been able to keep up certification. I need to know where you came from and what's going on now in order to know how best I can help you."

"If I say I don't need your help?"

"I'm fairly certain you could walk out of here any time you like. There would be an impressive body count, there would be all kinds of terrorist warnings to get the rest of the US government involved in your capture. But you sit here. You cooperate. You give as much respect back as you get. This means we have something you want. There is something we can provide for you. You wouldn't be here otherwise."

Natasha breathed deeply and slowly. This wasn't Natalia. Alian was as good as dead. All of her sisters in the arcades definitely were. Why was she even here? Why was she still alive?

"Maybe I just want to know why Clint Barton won't kill me when everyone else would."

She shouldn't have said that aloud. She shouldn't have given this woman anything true.

But Dr. Tseng merely tilted her head slightly, assessing Natasha. "You haven't asked him."

Why should she? Wouldn't he just lie anyway?

Only, he hadn't ever lied. She could tell that much. He told her truth in their various meetings, scattered across the globe. He even got her a present and let her have an hour of freedom.

"I'm in solitary confinement," she said instead. "Too few opportunities."

Dr. Tseng considered her for another moment, then suddenly nodded and scooped up her belongings. "Hold on a moment, please."

Startled, she watched as the doctor banged on the door and ordered Natasha be brought to her office. Her _office?_ There would be so many potential weapons there. The guard even told her so, but Dr. Tseng hushed him and ordered him to move Natasha for her interview.

As the guard hurried to do her bidding once more, Natasha decided she liked Dr. Tseng.

Both were silent on the way to her office, which was some distance from the interrogation room. It was above ground, with a window to the side of her desk. Dr. Tseng had her desk along one wall, with chairs across from it and around the room. Natasha immediately noticed that they would be equidistant from the door. There was a laptop on the desk with the SHIELD logo as the screensaver, book shelves in one corner of the room stuffed full of books, and there were even toys in one corner of the room near the door.

"You asked about confidentiality," Dr. Tseng said as Natasha sat down in one of the armchairs. It was very plush, very comfortable. "There are some things that wouldn't be entirely confidential," she admitted. "Anyone with Level 9 or 10 clearance could theoretically get into your file."

She ranked that high? She supposed she should be flattered. "So how many is that?"

Dr. Tseng gave her an apologetic look. "More than you'd like, I can tell you that much."

Natasha's lips flattened into a thin line. "What would it take for me to get the confidentiality that I need?"

"I can find out." Dr. Tseng immediately stood up, her pad and pens on top of her desk. "You can stay here. I'll leave the guard at the door."

"You trust me in here? That I won't take something or try to kill you when you get back?"

"I have the feeling if you wanted to, you could have killed me on the way. You have to trust me that I'm going to do as I say. And I have to trust you that you'll do as you say."

That was an excellent point, and Natasha nodded. "This is fair."

Nodding in return, Dr. Tseng smiled at her. "So have a look. Maybe you'll want to play with the toys? They certainly don't get too much use here."

"So why have them?"

"I'm a child and adolescent psychiatrist. That reminds me."

Natasha remained silent as Dr. Tseng left, and she remained in the chair for a moment to be sure the guard wasn't going to enter the office. When he didn't, she did a visual inspection of the room. The furniture was worn in places, indicating it had been in use for a long time. The weight of them pressed into the carpet, an industrial blend of colors meant to be soothing but was in fact rather nauseating. The desk was plain, cherry wood laminate, with the laptop, a closed agenda book, her notepad and pens. There was a phone on the desk, a paper tray stacked full of files, and three framed photographs that would be difficult to see from the plush chair she had been sitting in. Careful not to disturb them, she peered at the photographs. One was Dr. Tseng in a cap and gown holding her diploma, and she was standing between a Chinese man with curly black hair and streaks of gray and a Caucasian woman about her height. Another had Dr. Tseng with a young man that looked just like her, a young woman with blonde hair on his other side, and a Hispanic young man standing next to Dr. Tseng. The third photo was of three young children sitting on a black leather couch mugging for the camera.

She felt discomfited by the sight of her personal photos and looked at the books on the shelves. Most of them were psychiatric texts or psychopharmacology texts, some books on therapies of different kinds, a few that looked to be from board review courses. Disinterested, Natasha looked at the walls, which held peaceful landscapes and her diploma from medical school, her certificate for completing residency and then the certificate for completing her fellowship. Her license to practice medicine in the state of New York was on the wall as well. No board certification certificates on her wall, but Natasha doubted that Dr. Tseng failed the exams. It was more likely that she didn't want them there, whether because it disturbed the aesthetics of the room (highly unlikely) or because she didn't like the concept of the certification. Interesting.

Avoiding the files on the desk and the laptop, Natasha peered at the toys. There was a Fisher Price Little People dollhouse, complete with furniture and dolls tucked inside in the appropriate places. It looked well worn and played with. A plastic container held army men of different colors, small dinosaurs and toy cars. Another container had crayons, and that container was carefully placed on top of coloring books and activity books for young children. She had a small tub of Lego blocks, some stuffed animals, and a doll in a pretty blue dress with torn white lace edging. Natasha picked up the doll, curious about the dress. The doll was older, the blonde hair losing some of its processed curl, and the blue glass eyes stared at her. There was even a printed smattering of freckles across the doll's nose, and the cupid's bow mouth was permanently curled in a soft smile. The dress was a satiny finish, cheap fabric, mass produced.

But she looked like Yelena. Those babysoft cheeks, the smile when Natasha had pulled her into the Romanova arcade and played cards with her, or sat with scrolls of blank paper and they colored, drawing maps for pretend armies to march across.

Collapsing to her knees, Natasha cradled the doll to her chest and began to openly sob. She didn't even hear when Dr. Tseng came back into the room, when she knelt down and called out her name properly. She leaned into the doctor when an arm came around her in a comforting gesture, her eyes sliding shut. _Yelena, what have I done?_

"I'm sorry, they want the recorded transcripts of every session," Dr. Tseng whispered. "But I'll see what I can do. You need this, I'll take care of it."

She meant it, too. Natasha could see that. Dr. Tseng would do exactly what she promised she would do, and she would find a way to give Natasha the privacy she needed.

"You can keep her," the doctor said when Natasha tried to push the doll into her hands. "I think she's been waiting for you."

Her throat closing up, Natasha only sobbed harder. She didn't even protest when Dr. Tseng accompanied her back to her cell, didn't think to be worried about the unhappy expression on the doctor's face at the sight of where she stayed.

"I'm going to take care of this," Dr. Tseng promised again, and Natasha believed her.

***  
***


	2. Settling

Blinking against the bright sunlight, she walked beside Dr. Tseng as they took a walk on the grounds. "Can you tell me what it was like when you were young?"

Natasha didn't miss her wording, but there was no pad or pen in her hands. They were simply walking at a sedate pace, two guards trailing behind them and ready to take her down if she stepped out of line. "What do you want to know?" she asked quietly.

"Whatever you can tell me," Dr. Tseng said, her voice matching Natasha's in volume and solemn tone. "We have time."

"Today, you mean?"

"As long as it takes you. So if you can't tell me today, that's fine. There's next week or the week after that. I'm not in any rush."

"That's different from most clinics," Natasha observed.

Dr. Tseng actually smiled. "It's a pleasant change. I don't miss dealing with insurance companies for prior auths or justifying why someone still needs treatment."

"Am I in treatment?"

"We haven't even completed your initial assessment."

Natasha looked at her in surprise. "We haven't? The others took an hour each."

Dr. Tseng snorted. "We know what their assessments are worth. I like to be thorough and accurate. I'm not going to saddle you with an incorrect diagnosis."

"Oh? What do you think I'll be diagnosed with?"

"If pressed, I can fall back on PTSD."

"But?" Natasha prompted.

"That doesn't capture it all. There are stories there that need to be told. Letters on a page won't be able to describe your experience."

She let out a long breath. "There's background you'd need to know before I even start describing what it was like when I was young."

"Quite possibly," she agreed. "I've never been to Russia."

Natasha considered what Inside had been like compared to Outside. "You couldn't call where I grew up Russia. I was Russian, it was an influence. But it wasn't where we grew up. We grew up Inside, with watchers and handlers and thousands of eyes ranking and judging us."

Dr. Tseng gazed at her sharply, but didn't say anything. She was a woman that knew the value of well placed silence.

She was still quiet when a tall black man with an eye patch and a trench coat emerged from the building and stalked toward them. Everything in his demeanor indicated his ire, but Dr. Tseng didn't appear perturbed in the slightest. No, wait. When she turned her head, Natasha could see her pulse jump in her throat.

This man was important, then. Natasha paid attention to him without appearing to.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing, Dr. Tseng?" he snarled, tossing out the doctor's name like a curse.

"Caring for my patient," she replied in a bland tone. It wasn't quite as accomplished as that of Clint's handler, but possibly the best that Dr. Tseng could do. She cared too much.

The thought bothered Natasha.

"This is a psychopathic killer."

"Psychopathy is an antiquated term, Director," Dr. Tseng reported mildly. "You want sociopath. Or antisocial personality disorder. Miss Romanova did not attack anyone since her arrival here. It could be argued that my colleague had asked for a demonstration of her skill level," she said when the Director opened his mouth in anger. "It could very well be that she's biding her time if there were antisocial tendencies, but most are quite arrogant and care nothing for convention or consequences. They simply do as they please and expect others to fall in line simply because of who they are."

Natasha suppressed a grin. Oh, she _liked_ Dr. Tseng.

"Be that as it may, we're not arguing terminology."

"Oh, but _I_ am, Director. In order to accurately plan for her future, we need to understand who she is and what her needs are. The terminology is going to be accurate if you want me to make recommendations."

"Well, then. What's your diagnosis, _Doctor?"_

"Diagnosis is pending. I'm not going to rush through this. You want accurate, we'll need to do this properly." That pulse was _racing_ in her throat, but Dr. Tseng wasn't going to back down on Natasha's behalf.

It was like watching Natalia with Ivan when she was very young.

"Is it proper to walk around outside the building rather than use your office?"

"It's going to have to be if my office is bugged," Dr. Tseng snapped. "There has to be a therapeutic relationship. There has to be a reason for us to talk. She needs to trust me, and she can't if you're going to break it."

"You're talking about loyalties."

"Perhaps I am," Dr. Tseng replied.

Natasha hadn't moved during the interchange, and she met the Director's gaze head on. He was cold, distant, weighing risks and benefits, calculating if having her on their side was worth the chance she could steal secrets and defect to another party.

"I'm not fooled by you," the Director said, his one eyed stare devoid of softer emotions. "I know what you're capable of. I don't forget that for a second."

"And neither do I," Natasha replied just as coolly.

Their gazes held, and then his eye slid toward the doctor. "You better be on your guard and get me something I can use. You can have your office, but I need _something."_

"You can see the progress notes. I'll keep my process notes."

He waved his hand as if it was negligible difference, then stalked back into the building.

Dr. Tseng had a wide smile on her face at that, and shoved her hands back into her jacket pockets and began to walk again. Natasha turned and moved to match her stride. "So that means?" she prompted when Dr. Tseng didn't say anything.

"It means I won. I get to treat you like my patient, not a prisoner."

Natasha considered that and nodded her approval. "I like you."

"Well, good," she replied easily. "I like you, too."

Something warm filled her chest, and it took her a few minutes to remember when she had last felt that way. She had been Nicole, and her best friend had been Francesca Drakov.

***

"I think you're moving up in the world."

Natasha rolled her eyes at Clint's statement. "Because I have a window?"

"Well, yeah. And you get to come out of here for range time and rec time besides the therapy sessions." He beamed at her and seemed far too pleased with himself.

"You recommended Dr. Tseng for me, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. The rest of them are assholes, I told you. She actually cares about us as people and not just weapons."

"You've gone through that list, too, haven't you?"

"Yep. Drove 'em all nuts, too." Clint still had that friendly grin on his face, and her dour expression didn't seem to lessen it at all. She would knock it down a notch or two eventually, she was sure. "This is a nicer room."

And it was. The bed wasn't bolted any longer, and was a nice wooden frame with headboard, a more comfortable mattress, soft sheets, thick pillows to rest her head and doll upon, and a fluffy comforter because of the inclement weather. She had a dresser now, and a few changes of clothing to go into it rather than one bland SHIELD issue prisoner jumpsuit in the closet. There was a window that looked out over the grounds, though it was still impossible to tell exactly where in the US they were. SHIELD was trying to encourage her loyalty, but they weren't stupid about it.

"Speaking of range time," Natasha began expectantly.

"Guess what I got clearance for?" he asked, leading her toward the range.

"What good will that do?" she asked in return, frowning.

"You like surprises?"

"No, not really. I've never had good ones."

"I promise, this will be a good one."

At the range, Clint had his recurve bow. He had gotten a pair of Glock 19 pistols for Natasha to use, and beamed at her as if it was a holiday or her birthday. "They might be big for your hands," he said, indicating the pistols he requisitioned. "Try them, though. If you don't like 'em, we'll try out something different next time."

"I can handle any number of weapons."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah. But a preference?"

She frowned at him. "I'm allowed to have one?"

At those words, he frowned. No pity in his gaze, which she appreciated. "Sure. And I would think the tech department could get their hands on specialty stuff if they had it."

"I first trained on a Makarov," she told him slowly. "That doesn't make it my favorite, though."

"Bad memories?"

"No, it was simply training. I had no favorites. I used what they gave me to practice on. I had to be equally skilled in a number of different weapons."

Natasha was aware that what she said was likely filed away to be picked apart later. She was the only living Black Widow. For years, SHIELD agents were told to kill her, and here they were, making her comfortable. Quite the change in policy. It made her wonder if there were agents simply biding their time until she was no longer useful so they could kill her.

Clint looked at her and snapped his bow open, looking at her intently. "Why did you come in? You'd said you hated SHIELD."

"I once said I'd never work for them," she agreed.

"What changed things?"

"You," she said simply.

He looked at her in surprise. "Why me?"

"It held your loyalty, and you are not bound by overwhelming ideology. Most Hydra agents spout ridiculous nonsense. Black Spectre brainwashes their agents. The Ten Rings are beholden to their leaders. Vory are familial. Individuals hold little conviction." Natasha turned to the range, put her ear protection on and fired off an entire magazine. Clint watched her the entire time, thoughtful, and only removed his own headgear when she did.

"You're _good,_ without trying, without ulterior motive." He continued to be silent and thoughtful, so she swapped out the magazine for a fresh one and replaced her headgear. She fired again, but stopped after three shots. Lowering the Glock, she looked at him with a vulnerable expression she didn't have to feign. "You saw something worth saving."

"You're a kid."

"You're not that much older than I am."

"You're nineteen. I'm twenty-seven and a lifetime of shit older than you are." His mouth twisted in distaste, and he yanked the headgear off his own head. "I know you're legal, but that just feels all kinds of wrong."

"I didn't mean it in a sexual sense. I don't like that, anyway," she admitted.

"Sex?"

"Yes. I've had to use my body as a weapon in all kinds of ways. They put sexualized overlays into my mind. They made me want a target. Or someone close to a target. Whatever the parameters were that most likely would get the job done."

Clint gave her a sour look. "Shit. You were loose for a couple of years, right? They prostituted a _child_ in order to kill people?"

Natasha shrugged and fired off the rest of the rounds. "I did as directed. We all did."

"We again."

Lowering the Glock, she put it down on the shelf at the lane, then took off the ear protection and put it down as well. "You're the one that suggested Dr. Tseng. Because you see me as a child."

"The others were losers. I thought she'd be a better fit for you."

Nodding, Natasha clasped her hands in front of her. "What do you want from me, then?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I owe you a debt."

"No, you don't."

"You were sent to kill me and made a different call. You were disciplined for it. You have suggested things to make my life easier. Yet you don't want my body. So what _do_ you want? What can I give you?"

Clint frowned. "Not everything is an exchange."

"Isn't it?"

"No, it isn't. Maybe it was just wrong to leave you out there, Natasha. Killing shouldn't be something you want to do, or done just to survive. There are better ways to take care of yourself, better ways to use the training you've got. You're worth more than that."

"Yes, I know. My life has been sustained at the cost of over a thousand souls."

He let out a slow breath. "You kept track."

"It was suggested that I view it as a ledger."

"A ledger. Like checks and balances."

"Yes," Natasha replied simply. "Exactly."

"Life doesn't work that way."

"Mine has. Sacrifices to keep me alive. Debts to repay."

"You don't owe me a debt."

"Yes, I do."

Clint heaved an irritated sigh. "I want you to have a life. To live the life you should've had if you were an ordinary girl."

"I never would have been ordinary. Where I was born, who I was born to? I never would have been allowed to be ordinary. They saw to that."

"So what do _you_ want?"

She'd thought about that off and on since the Red Room burned down. Sometimes it had seemed like an exercise in futility. This was all she knew. What was the point in dreaming of something more? Why wish to be something different?

"There isn't any point to dreaming about anything."

Putting down his bow and giving her intense look, he shook his head. "What's the point if you _can't_ dream anymore? You have to want _something."_

There were any number of things she could wish for, all of which would be painful. "Wishes like that _hurt,_ Clint. I came here so that things would _stop hurting."_

Given that there was that troubled look on his face with the entire direction this conversation had gone, there was no warning for the sudden, intense embrace Natasha found herself in. She struggled with her instinct to hurt him, to push him away, to say something cutting. And like with the doll, Natasha found herself holding on tight and sobbing as if her dead heart was breaking to pieces. "I can't. I can't wish for anything. I don't deserve it."

Clint merely held her tightly. "Yes, you do," he said quietly. "And if you think you don't, then maybe you should find some way to fix it so that you'll think you can."

"Like balancing my ledger?" she asked, pulling away from him and wiping at her eyes. She couldn't meet his gaze.

"If you have to think of it that way." He touched her shoulder, and unbidden, she thought of Alian touching her as he sought to steady her against bad news. "I didn't bring you here so you would owe me a debt. I didn't try to help you with an ulterior motive in mind. You're not who you think you are, Natasha. You're more than just training and fractured memories and debts and whatever else they did to you. You don't owe me a damn thing."

She wondered at him, that he would believe such a thing despite the death toll and everyone else's suspicion. "I'm not good."

"I think you were. Someone thought you were worth saving when the Red Room was burned down, right?" Natasha flinched at that, she couldn't help it. Clint grasped her hand tightly. "Well, I think you're worth saving, too."

"You might be the only one."

He shook his head. "They're waiting for the other shoe to drop. They don't think they can trust you. The rumors out there don't paint you in a flattering light."

"They're not supposed to."

Now he grinned, and Natasha was wondering if he had some kind of an emotional disorder. "I have an idea," he told her, and she was starting to think that it was going to be a _terrible_ idea to do whatever he thought was appropriate. He had thought she would fit in here, after all.

"Should I even ask?"

Clint snorted. "Let's stow the gear and head out. Like I said, I have an idea."

It turned out to be sitting in Agent Coulson's office, earnest expression on his face as he requested having Natasha be his partner on an upcoming mission into Estonia. She shot him an incredulous look, but Coulson simply sat there.

"You seem... less than enthusiastic, Miss Romanova," he drawled.

"He's crazy. Absolutely mental. I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have come in."

"Why did you?" Coulson asked, a thread of curiosity in his tone.

Natasha glared at him instead of answering, but Coulson didn't seem to be bothered by that. If she had to guess, he was glared at all too often. If he was anything like Clint, he _reveled_ in getting under others' skin.

"It was time to do something different," Natasha replied. Clint had gotten her thinking, and he was _good,_ and he had never harmed her despite opportunities to do so.

"Let's see what Dr. Tseng thinks. She hasn't finished her evaluation yet."

"It's been almost two months!" Clint cried.

"She won't rush things, you know that," Coulson told him. "But Estonia is not a time sensitive mission. It can wait if you can."

Clint gave Natasha a sidelong glance. "Yeah. I think I can."

***

Natasha arrived early for her session as she usually did, and sat in one of the chairs facing Dr. Tseng's office. She sat perfectly still, aware of the guards in the hallway. They seemed nervous to be watching over her, making her wonder what level agent they were. Clint was Level Seven, and her own secrets warranted at least Level Nine. If she had given them all away, would she have warranted Ten?

She blinked in surprise when the door opened and Clint stepped out ahead of Dr. Tseng. He was looking down, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, a pained expression on his face. Dressed in ordinary blue jeans, tight gray T shirt and boots, he didn't seem to be the poised agent she was used to seeing. "I'll remember that," he was telling Dr. Tseng as he looked up. He stopped when he saw Natasha, then grinned. "Hey."

"I suppose I should have realized you saw her, too," Natasha murmured.

Dr. Tseng had a bit of a smirk as she opened the door to her office wider. "Patient confidentiality is very important."

Clint kept the grin on his face as he started strolling down the hallway, past Natasha's guards. "Play nice, okay? We got bad guys that need shooting badly."

"If they need it that bad, Barton, why not go without me?" Natasha asked his retreating back.

"Some things just aren't as much fun alone," he said, not turning around. He waved his arm and then continued down the hallway.

Natasha sat in one of the chairs across from Dr. Tseng's, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. The doctor perched her laptop in her lap; she was capable of taking notes without looking at the keys or screen, and never once lost the thread of what Natasha told her. For some reason, Natasha didn't wonder what she was writing. These were her notes, and Dr. Tseng had her best interest in mind. Natasha could trust in that much. The Director was a different story, but she could trust in Clint and Dr. Tseng, maybe Coulson. He was at least straightforward.

"What you told me last time," Dr. Tseng said in opening, changing things from her usual "How was your week?" opener, "is that they had to drug you into compliance for the later tests and the memory overlays. How do you know for certain?"

"I suppose I don't. But it happened the first time. And there were the tools and syringes, the blackouts and missing time... It must have happened."

They painstakingly tried to piece together her timeline of events. Natasha left out Alian's contribution, which made for an odd overlap when the Red Room burned down. Dr. Tseng frowned at what she had written, but put her laptop aside. "We have a good start," she said, shrugging. "It's a work in progress."

"Why does it matter?"

"Don't you want to know?"

Yes. No. Why did it matter?

"You won't be able to move on until you can own your past," Dr. Tseng said when she remained silent. "The fragments of memory need to make sense."

"I've pieced it together already. I know why it happened."

"But you don't know what they did to you. Not for sure. And you weren't safe, not by a long shot. That much trauma... It has its effects, even if you don't recognize it." Her gaze fell significantly on the white knuckles of Natasha's hands. She had grabbed the armrests of the chair and held on for dear life, and hadn't even realized it. "We'll work through it."

"Why?"

"Because you need to feel safe. It's the only way you can begin to heal."

Natasha mulled that over, and was startled when Dr. Tseng plugged in the laptop and moved to escort her back to her room. "You don't have to do this."

"I know."

"So why are you?"

"I'm done for the day. So it's a good time to check in on your accommodations."

The guards tried to discourage her from coming with them, but Dr. Tseng was stubborn. She kept up a one sided commentary about her observations on different kinds of living spaces, and didn't seem to mind Natasha's silence.

But Natasha wasn't silent because of the conversation. The guards were taking a different direction to her room. "This isn't right," she murmured.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Tseng asked, stopping in her commentary.

"This is a different route."

Dr. Tseng didn't usually go with her, so she hadn't noticed the difference. "Why is that?" she asked the guards.

"Orders came in," one said reluctantly. He looked around. "You need to wait here," he told Natasha, appearing nervous. Her hackles rose.

"Orders?" Dr. Tseng was asking, glaring at the guard. "What orders? There aren't supposed to be any orders. This is the medical wing. I didn't authorize any pre-mission physical."

Natasha edged away from the guards. "I don't like this."

"You're right. This is ridiculous. I'm not okaying anything—"

The guard that hadn't spoken pulled out a gun and pointed it at Dr. Tseng. "You really shouldn't have come along, doc."

Her eyes were large, and Natasha knew she'd never been in a combat situation before. The training Natasha had since birth kicked in, and it felt almost good to have a purpose again. She moved with eerie grace to take the guard down, but the second was still there, and he had a grenade in his hand. He was standing next to the door of a medical bay, looking sickly as he took in the unconscious mass that was his partner. "You shouldn't have done that. It wasn't supposed to end this way. But you have to die."

Before anything else could be said, he pulled the pin.

The explosion was larger than expected, and likely meant that the grenade was one of the ones that the science division was experimenting with. The guard was blown apart immediately, and the unconscious guard was grievously wounded. The explosion also blew through the wall next to them, which ignited medical equipment and the oxygen lines in the wall. Natasha was thrown across the hall, burns across her arms and left leg. She could hear someone in the medical wing screaming, but she had been trained not to react to pain.

But she couldn't hear Dr. Tseng.

Natasha pushed past the dizziness and nausea, ignoring the pain from her wounds. There were the black pants and vivid red of Dr. Tseng's blouse, her shoes knocked off of her feet. No, wait. A foot was missing, and she was unnaturally still.

Suddenly, Natasha was screaming, trying to crawl toward Dr. Tseng. The doctor couldn't be dead, not because of her. Pounding footsteps approached, but it didn't matter. She had to see if Dr. Tseng was okay, because it didn't matter if there was smoke and fire and klaxons blaring in the aftermath of the blast. SHIELD would have to take care of that, but Dr. Tseng had been standing to Natasha's left, had been closer to the grenade—

She was being lifted to her feet, and instinct had her fighting and spitting out anatomical improbabilities in Russian. It was the Director himself, grim faced and taking every punch she landed. "You have to help her," Natasha gasped, ignoring the way the world swam. "She—You have to help her. The others in the med bays. She can't— _Dr. Tseng's not moving."_

"We're going to take care of them. We're going to do everything we can. You need—"

"No, no, I don't need anything. I've had worse, this is nothing, just a concussion and burns, it'll be fine. Dr. Tseng needs the attention. She's no fighter, she doesn't have training—"

Someone was carrying her away, and her limbs flopped gracelessly. Her hair was singed, her glasses were gone, and there were deep, jagged cuts in her face. Natasha flailed against the Director, wild and desperately needing to check on her. "You're going the wrong way!" she screeched, realizing that the rescuers were bringing her away from the checkup rooms. Sure, there were three of then blasted all to hell, but they would be able to use another one. "You're going the wrong way!" she repeated, trying to push herself away from the Director.

"Natalia Alianovna," the Director said, catching hold of her hands. "They're going the right way. That's the way to the morgue."

Her chest seized, and Natasha let out a heart wrenching scream, the kind she would have made in the Red Room after Natalia's death if she had felt safe to. The Director held her tightly as she shook, as her world ended yet again.

***

Coulson sat down next to Natasha's bed in the hospital wing two days later. "We were infiltrated," he told her quietly. "They were paid to kill you. If they failed, their families would be killed as a warning to them for failure."

"So either way, I was dead and she was collateral damage."

"Yes." Coulson paused, expression downcast. "I'm sorry."

"Who was it that ordered the hit?"

"A syndicate based out of Austria—"

"Are you going after them?" she asked coldly.

Coulson paused. "Not officially, no. Legalities, extradition treaties..." He handed her a slim manila folder, lips compressed into a grim line. "But if you're in medical for the next two weeks, no one around here would notice if a special strike team disappeared for a few days to take care of that pesky problem."

"I didn't think SHIELD was that kind."

"We don't make it a habit of letting one of ours be gunned down or blown up. Retaliation is messy, but sometimes it's necessary." Coulson gave her an even look. "This is necessary, Miss Romanova. She was one of the good ones."

Natasha had difficulty swallowing past the lump in her throat. "Yes, she was."

"Unofficial authorization comes from the top," Coulson murmured.

Dimly, Natasha remembered the Director telling medical personnel to check the damaged rooms first, to tend to the screaming and injured. He had held onto Natasha the entire time, keeping her upright and alert when she started shaking. Opening the folder, Natasha saw the name Director Nicholas Fury scrawled on the bottom.

"Who am I going with?"

"Who else?" Coulson replied, a trace of irritation in his tone. "This one asked to be paired with you specifically. And he has his own axe to grind." Coulson cleared his throat. "If you're amenable to the situation, of course. The two of you likely will make a very effective strike team. You can think of this as your practice run before Estonia."

"I thought I wasn't going to be allowed to go."

"Whitney was putting off authorization. She wanted you on site to process the past. She said you needed to work on the trauma first, not add to it."

Natasha turned away from Coulson and the folder, letting her eyes slide shut to hide the burning tears that threatened to fall. How could she answer something like that?

He touched the back of her hand lightly when she didn't answer. "Welcome to Strike Team Delta. I'll be back with Clint, and we'll go over our mission objective in detail."

Now she turned toward him. "Mission objective?"

"Revenge, of course. I liked Whitney. We all did." Coulson stood, and she could see the tired, dark circles under his eyes. "I think we can trust you on this, Miss Romanova. You cared about her as much as we did."

She looked at him, feeling a gaping maw open up inside of her. Too much pain, too much grief, too many ghosts following closely behind her. "I promise you, they will pay, and they will wish they never heard of us."

Coulson smiled, and it wasn't warm or friendly at all. "Good."

The End


End file.
